


Fantomă

by weepingnaiad



Category: Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1960s, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Canon-Typical Violence, Domestic Violence, Gen, Haunting, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, POV Bucky Barnes, Period Typical Attitudes, Pre-Slash, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-15 14:43:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21255047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weepingnaiad/pseuds/weepingnaiad
Summary: O iubire a mamei (A Mother's Love)A wrong turn, a dare, a desperate attempt to make sense of the world.And now Steve worries that Bucky's losing touch with reality since he came back so broken from Vietnam.  But Bucky knows what he saw.  He knows the promise that was extracted from him and he's going to keep it.  He promised he'd save her son, he just has to find him first.





	Fantomă

For this prompt:  


~~*~~

Bucky's twelve the first time he sees the abandoned amusement park with its broken roller coaster, rotting entrance, and pock-marked and debris-strewn parking lot. His family's on a car trip to Bucky's great aunt's house in Waterloo, Iowa for Thanksgiving when his dad takes a wrong turn after pulling off the new interstate. They end up going the opposite direction on the state highway so he turns into the park to turn around over Winnifred's objections; the car rolls under the cracked and broken entrance sign which might have once been brightly painted but is now a faded shadow of itself.

"Keep going, George!" Winnifred cries out, voice going shrill. "Don't stop here!"

"Now, now, Winnie," George says, all calming reassurance. "There's no reason to keep going the wrong way. It's getting late and the kids need to get to bed."

Bucky's face is plastered to the back window of the station wagon as he stares at the way the fog seems to swell and grow, tendrils reaching toward the car.

"Well, do it quickly, George!" she says, crossing herself with her right hand, as she grabs George's bicep with her left. "I wish they'd tear this place down!" she mutters, eyes darting around.

"It's cursed, Winnie," Bucky's nana answers, not even glancing up from her knitting. "Ain't nothing taking it down until the curse is lifted." 

Then she looks up at Bucky, her eyes going unfocused for a minute before her wizened face softens. "Don't worry, boy," she says. "Ain't nothing here coming after you." She cocks her head as though she's listening to voices Bucky can't hear and adds, "Not yet," in a low, breathy voice. 

It sends a shiver down Bucky's spine, but the moment's broken by his dad.

"Missus Popescu!" George objects. "Please don't go filling the boy's head full of your gypsy superstitions! He's gonna be a scientist!" he says, all determination, laying out Bucky's future so easily. "Probably work for NASA! Maybe he'll get to work on those space rockets one day!"

"It ain't nonsense," Nana huffs. "Just 'cause you don't understand somethin' don't make it deserving of mockery." Then she winks at Bucky and gives him a soft smile, mouthing, "It ain't nonsense."

Bucky swallows, turns back to stare out the window as the park and its eerie fog recede in the rear window. Just before the car turns around a bend, Bucky swears he sees a woman walking across the roadway behind them. He can almost hear her voice, anguished cries as she calls for someone to save her baby. Giving a little shudder, he is as relieved as Winnifred when they round the bend and the desolate place disappears from view.

~~*~~

The next time he comes across the abandoned park, Bucky's fifteen. He's on a Greyhound bus beside Stevie on their way to spend the summer out of the city. Far out. Waterloo, Iowa is a long way from Brooklyn and even if his mom says it's not a punishment, Bucky knows it for what it is. She needs him out from under foot since Nana got sick and he really shouldn't have been caught fighting again. But his nana taught him to stand up for what's right and he couldn't let the assholes beat Stevie up. And Stevie would never sit back and let the bullies win. Even when it cost him two black eyes and some busted ribs.

Maybe someday all the fighting Stevie does will pay off. Maybe he'll even get to meet Martin Luther King, Jr. Or maybe he'll get to use all that stubbornness to change the world. It'd only be fair since Steve's heart is bigger than any four men Bucky's ever known.

The bus slows as it passes the amusement park and, in the daylight, it just looks rundown and sad. Lost. Not scary. And definitely not cursed.

He nudges Stevie with an elbow. "That place is cursed," he says just to see what Steve will say.

Steve rolls his eyes at him. "Sure, Buck, and I'm a witch."

"Well, lots of folks way back when mighta thought you were," Bucky replies.

"What? Why?" Steve asks, all affronted honor.

Bucky just shrugs. "You got the devil's own temper and the priest has done last rites how many times?" He won't meet Steve's eyes. "People'll believe anything if'n a priest says it."

"I'm no witch just because I fight for what's right!" Steve argues.

Bucky bumps their shoulders together. "I know that. It was just an example."

The bus turns and the park disappears behind them. "I was just funnin' you," Bucky apologizes. "We could go back? Maybe check it out?"

"It would be a good place to draw," Steve offers, accepting Bucky's peace offering. "It'd give me practice working with charcoals."

"Cool!" Bucky says.

He keeps his word and takes Steve to the park the next weekend. Bucky borrows his great aunt's Cadillac, but doesn't tell her where they're going. She's just as superstitious as his nana. There's no sense opening up that can of worms.

And under the Equinox's full moon, the park's desolation is painted in stark relief, every crack, dent, and ding black as pitch. He parks near the huge elm tree close to the entry gate which is rusted shut. Instead, they find a tear in the fence and squeeze through it, Steve going first since he's smaller.

When they stand in the park at last, an icy wind races up Bucky's spine making him shiver.

Steve's unconcerned. He's already got his sketchbook out and is busy roughing out the haunting images surrounding them.

"Didya feel that?" Bucky asks.

When Steve doesn't reply, Bucky repeats the question. "Steve?" Then he nudges Steve with a careful elbow. He knows better than to jostle Steve when he's sketching.

"Huh?"

Steve blinks and looks up at Bucky, giving him a brilliant smile. "This place is perfect!"

"Perfect? It's all busted up."

"But don't you see?" Steve tries to explain. "That's part of the appeal. It's eerie and desolate."

"Haunted?" Bucky asks, grinning. "Not like with ghosts!" he amends.

"Har har, sure, Buck. It's haunting." He closes his sketchbook and crosses his arms over his chest. "Okay, so tell me the story."

"What story?" Bucky asks all innocent, butter wouldn't melt in his mouth.

"Don't give me that," Steve is unmoved. "Tell me what crazy thing happened besides bad management that made this place go under."

"Well, my nana said it was a murder-suicide."

"A what?"

Bucky just lifts his shoulders and then waves a hand. "I mean, you have a good eye and can imagine how this place looked before."

"It musta been pretty nice," Steve says, artist's eye conjuring images before turning to Bucky and asking, frown creasing his forehead, "So what's the deal? Who killed who?"

"Local guy," Bucky starts. "Had a drinking problem and used his fists instead of his words."

"Hey!" Steve says. "Was that a dig at me?"

Bucky reaches over and grabs Steve around the neck then tugs him close. "If the shoe fits!"

Steve struggles, then elbows Bucky hard in the ribs before ducking out from under his arm.

"Jerk!"

"Punk!" Bucky laughs as he rubs his side.

"So keep going," Steve orders.

"Huh?" Bucky is staring toward the roller coaster. The moon's risen higher, the shadows less intense as the light softens around them, but he swears fog is rolling in.

"Finish the story!" Steve taps his foot.

"Oh! Yeah, um, there's not much more. I guess he got plastered and came to work anyway."

"He worked here?"

"Yeah," Bucky points. "On the roller coaster. He was maintenance or something."

"That doesn't explain anything. How'd he do it?"

Bucky's eyes can't leave the encroaching fog. "They say he went crazy, started shouting all sorts of shit when his wife and kid showed up. Took a crowbar to her and then climbed up to the top of the coaster and jumped off." He answers in a lazy voice, only half paying attention to what he's saying.

Steve gives a shudder. "That's sick, man."

"Yeah," Bucky agrees. "Yeah, it is."

He sees movement by the entrance to the coaster and takes Steve by the hand, tugging him forward. "C'mon, somethin's out there."

Steve digs his heels in and shakes his head. "Nah, I'm not done here."

Bucky glances back, then shrugs. "Whatever. Just don't leave this area, I'll be back for you."

"Sir, yes, sir!" Steve mock salutes, but ends up listening anyway. Before Bucky turns his back to him, he's sitting on a dilapidated bench, engrossed in his sketches.

Bucky walks warily further into the park, only letting out a startled gasp when a rat chitters at him as it darts out of his way. He draws a shaky breath, but doesn't stop walking. The fog grows dense behind him, but is lessening in front of him. It makes no sense but it's almost as if the park itself is urging him forward.

He makes it through the entrance of the coaster, but he somehow knows he's too late. There's only muffled shouting, a loud thump, and then an icy whirlwind knocks him down, dazing him as his head hits the ground.

Before he passes out, he hears a voice whisper near his ear, "James, save my baby."

~~*~~

"Buck," someone says, shaking him.

"Bucky!"

Bucky blinks up at Steve. As his eyes focus, he can tell that Steve's freaking out.

Slowly sitting up, he rubs the back of his head. "What happened?"

"I don't know!" Steve sits back on his heels, bites his lip, ducks his head before straightening to meet Bucky's eyes. "I was sketching, wasn't paying much attention to anything, then I heard a shout and you weren't anywhere to be found!"

Bucky looks around. He's sitting on the ground under a gnarled tree near the skeletal remains of the carousel with its rotting horses and broken top. "I, um," he begins, still dazed since he doesn't know how he got there. "Sorry?" he says looking at Steve. 

Steve sags, giving Buck a terse nod. "Can you drive?"

Bucky stands, wobbles just a bit, but he shrugs, then gives Steve a cocky smirk. "Better 'n you," he says, holding out a hand.

Steve rolls his eyes, but grips Bucky's hand, holding on a bit tight after he's pulled to standing.

They walk back slowly, Steve hovering just a bit until Bucky bumps their shoulders. "I'm fine, ya' punk."

"Okay," Steve says but doesn't sound remotely convinced. "See you stay that way."

~~*~~

Bucky's eighteen the next time he steps on the broken asphalt of the abandoned park. He drives under the entrance, parks near the large elm once again, and takes a walk around the main gate before returning. He leans against his car, a 1964 Mustang that his dad had helped him rebuild after they towed it home from the junkyard, and lights up. He's waiting for something, unsure what, or even why he came back here. But he's expectant, alert as a hush settles around him, inhales deeply to make the cigarette end flare bright red and drown out the voices in his head.

He tilts his head back, closes his eyes, and exhales, body going still with watchfulness. The cigarette burns down. He flicks it away before lighting another. Still nothing happens. He opens his eyes and straightens. Everything's the same. No fog. No calliope. No wraiths reaching for him. No mysterious voices. It's just an old decrepit park with nothing to offer anyone, especially not a widow's son whose family can't afford a college deferment.

He stubs out the cigarette with his toe, tugs the letter out of his back pocket, and flicks the lighter to see sparks hit the paper, so tempted to take Steve's advice. 

"Go to Canada, Buck!" Steve had urged, mouth a thin line, eyes so very blue and wide with fear. Bucky had to leave him, had to leave his ma and his sisters. Had to leave everything behind, just to go halfway round the world to fight and probably die in a war no one really believes in anymore, if they ever did.

The letter crumples easily and sails far across the parking lot. Baseball had been good for one thing, taught Bucky how to throw a pitch, a useful skill only because it translates well into landing a solid punch. He laughs aloud as the white ball bounces twice, then rolls into a large crack in the asphalt. Accursed thing. Arriving four months to the day of his dad's funeral.

He eyes the gate, glares up at the moon, sags back against the car. He doesn't know what he expected, what he was hoping for, but now he's just delaying the inevitable. He has three days to report and hiding out in Iowa isn't even remotely on a list of good ideas.

The moon is setting, his pack of cigarettes is empty, and there's still nothing. Bucky tosses the crumpled pack after his draft letter. As if that could change anything. 

With his back to the park, he doesn't see the fog, but he feels the creeping silence, goosebumps rising on his arms. He straightens, squares his shoulders and turns, shiver racing down his spine as he sees that the fog is almost at his feet.

Glancing up, he sees a figure beckoning him on and he follows. It's what he came for after all.

Bucky moves forward, eyes following after the wraith, unaware of the smothering fog until he's enveloped by it. He lifts his hand and can't see it in front of his face. It's growing even colder, his breath adding to the vapor around him. Swallowing, he calls out, "Who's there?" But his voice comes out a muffled rasp.

He turns to retreat, but the park's gone. There's no broken down benches, no scrubby trees, no shuttered booths, and not a single skeletal ride. There's just fog, no moon, no sounds, no _life._ Just as he fears his heart is going to leap out of his chest, when he seriously considers that no one would ever know if he died here, the fog starts to thin at his left. He moves in that direction, eyes still seeking for any landmark to seize on.

What he doesn't expect is to step into a fully operational amusement park; his senses suffering whiplash from the sudden assault. Everything's so bright and loud and all too much; from the colored neon and flashing lights burning his eyes to the tantalizing aromas of caramel popcorn, corn dogs, and candy apples, to the cacophony of a calliope and bells ringing from the games, all surfing on the riotous laughter of _so many_ people.

He's breathless and stumbles, nearly trips over a young boy.

"Hey, mister! Watch out!" the kid shouts, shoving Bucky away.

His mother grabs the kid's hand and tugs him away as she gives Bucky a warning glare. "Don't talk to strangers, Billy," she hisses as she pulls him with a tight grip. "Especially one who's been drinking!"

Bucky blinks after her, gets jostled again and again, the crowd pushing him further into the park, toward the roller coaster. He hears angry shouting as he nears the ride's entrance, shoves past the people until he can make out a man's voice. It's rough, sounds like the guy's been drinking heavily because he's slurring his words, cussing vile enough to strip paint.

_This can't be happening,_ he thinks even as he looks back at the crowd, eyes darting around the park searching for a way back, a way _out._ But the lights are suddenly dim and distant, the noises muffled and muted, the crowd vanishing as the fog starts creeping around and over, hemming him in. When he balks, tries to run away, there's an icy blast, tendrils of fog pushing him toward a confrontation he wants no part of.

Crossing himself, he steps past the gate and into the area around the control panel and, just as he fears, a man with a ruddy face, reddish blond hair, is towering over a slight blonde woman who is holding a young boy behind her. She's taking the abuse, not talking back, even as tears roll down her cheeks, one sporting a bruise and a welt under her eye.

"Hey, asshole!" Bucky shouts, channeling Steve Rogers in all his righteous anger. "Why don't you pick on someone your own size?"

"Stay out of this!" the guy growls, turns back to the woman who had started to back away. He grabs her by the arm, fingers digging in as he tugs her forward. "Where ya' going, Edie?" he asks, voice a mockery of sweetness. "You got somewhere t' be? Like Bob's? You gonna go spread your legs for him?"

"Harold, no! I wouldn't!" She's shaking her head, trying to get away, but can't duck the open handed strike. Her head snaps back, and something breaks in Bucky. His hand closes on a metal pole and before he can wonder why he's suddenly holding a tire iron, he uses all his years of batting practice to take a swing at the guy's head.

The hit connects at his temple, staggers him enough, he releases the white-knuckled grip he's got on the woman who stumbles backwards, finally giving Bucky a clear view of the kid she was shielding. He's tow-headed, six, maybe eight at the most with blue eyes wide as saucers, mouth agape, but it's the black eye and fingerprints on his forearms that has Bucky seeing red.

"Run!" he shouts at them as he takes another swing at the man, but this time the guy's prepared and blocks it with his arm. There's a sickening crack of bone before the guy leaps forward, tackling Bucky as he tries to wrest the rod out of his grip.

Bucky swings madly, dodges meaty fists before he stumbles on something. He glances down to find he's atop the coaster, one foot on the rail, the other on a tie with the guy advancing on him. And now the guy has the tire iron and murder in his bloodshot eyes. The guy swings and Bucky ducks. When he straightens, the woman's standing behind the guy, Harold. 

"Save Clint," she says, staring right into Bucky's heart. "Promise me?"

"I promise, ma'am," he swears.

Harold swings again. Bucky ducks and while Harold's correcting for the miss, the woman pushes him over. He goes, but not before kicking out and knocking Bucky off the other side of the coaster.

Bucky falls.

~~*~~

He awakes on the ground next to his car. The moon's setting and he's been out long enough for his butt and back to be damp. As he shifts to sitting, his hand hits something on the ground. It's his draft letter, smoothed out, but still creased and dirtied as though it'd been wadded up into a ball and thrown.

Bucky swallows and glances around, heart pounding in his ears. It wasn't a dream, then.

He has no clue what any of this means, what he's supposed to do, but he's got three days and the library opens in seven hours.

~~*~~

He makes quick work at the library. With a silver-haired volunteer showing him around, he easily finds the newspaper articles about the whole gruesome incident over a decade and a half ago. He startles when he sees Edith Barton's photo. She's smiling, a lithe, pretty blonde with laughing blue eyes. She's standing next to her husband who barely resembles the rage and alcohol fueled monster Bucky'd seen. There's little mention of either of them, except that they were high school sweethearts, natives to the area, the only surviving family their son, Clint. There's a small yearbook photo of him, but no mention of what happened to him after _the incident_.

Bucky tries the courthouse for more records, but gets nowhere. The county records clerk is a sharp-eyed woman who frowns at Bucky's questions and answers none of them.

When she moves to help a "real" customer, an older lady gives Bucky a name, then holds a finger to her lips, her eyes darting to the other woman. Bucky nods and mouths his thanks before leaving.

There are two Cojocaru's in the phone book and Bucky hits paydirt on the second number.

He pulls into the driveway of a small, neatly kept duplex, flowers blooming in window boxes on the small porch. Before he can knock on the screen, the door opens.

"James Barnes?" 

The lady behind the screen has her arms crossed over her chest and she's not at all what he expected. She's as old as his nana, maybe older, her gray hair pulled back into a long ponytail, but her eyes are a warm, liquid brown in a wrinkled, chestnut brown face, vivid and intense. She's tall and stands straight, suspicion radiating from every pore.

"That's me, ma'am," he replies, pastes on an innocent smile.

She doesn't unbend, not one bit, and Bucky swallows. "Missus Cojocaru, I was given your name over at the courthouse."

"As you said on the telephone." She still hasn't moved a muscle.

"Um, well," he starts, not sure why no one wants to answer his questions. "I have a few questions about the Bartons is all."

"Why?" she asks, eyes narrowing and spine going even more straight. "You're not from one of those rag newspapers are you? Looking to drag good people through the mud?"

Bucky blinks. "No, I just… my nana told me about what happened at the park, told me it's cursed, and --"

"And what? You thought to make fun of it, of us?"

"No!" Bucky holds up his hands and shakes his head. "Not at all, ma'am." He looks around, swallows and then says, not at all certain of himself, "I think Edith Barton needs me to make sure Clint's okay?" His voice trails off, is barely more than a whisper when he finishes. He licks his lips and breathes out. "Please?"

She huffs out a breath through her nose, but flips the latch on the screen and opens it. "We'll see," she says.

Bucky follows the swish of her long ruby red skirt into the living room. It's small and filled with color, bright walls, dark woods, bold fabrics, and knickknacks adorning every flat surface. It's the opposite of the dainty chintz-filled room he was expecting. Actually Missus Cojocaru defies every single one of his expectations. She threw them out the window with her first word.

She points to the sofa and orders, "Sit. I'll make us some tea."

"You don't have to do that."

"I know, but I think you need it."

Bucky gapes after her, but he sits. His eyes glance around the room, linger on the framed photos sitting over the mantle. Most of them are of people standing in front of tents, the people in various costumes and fancy headgear. He has the urge to examine them closer and just as he gets up the nerve to do so, Missus Cojocaru returns with a tray of tea and cookies.

"Before you ask, yes, I was in the circus and yes, I knew the Bartons, mostly Edith who was the grand-daughter of our ringmaster," she says as she leans over and pours tea into two porcelain cups, handing Bucky one before cradling her own close to her.

"Oh," Bucky says, caught flat-footed. "Um, thank you?" he says and it comes out like a question. Instead of floundering some more, he takes a sip. It's not at all what he was expecting, is nothing like his nana's strong, bitter teas. The flavor is subtle, slightly herbal and very floral.

"This isn't Romani tea," he says as Missus Cojocaru leans back in the chair across from him.

"Of course it isn't. I'm not Romani," she replies, matter of fact.

"Oh, um, but your name?"

She chuckles and the smile transforms her face, makes her look younger. "I married into the family."

"Oh," he says, feels his face heat because that really should have been his first thought.

"My birth name was Aŋpétu Wašté Wiŋ, but we were not allowed to keep those names. So I became Ella Cara Deloria, just Ella Cojocaru after I married Eladon."

"I'm sorry for assuming, ma'am," he says, as contrite as his nana taught him to be.

Missus Cojocaru just waves him off with an easy chuckle. "You are not the first and at least you didn't make it sound like a swear word."

She eyes him over her cup, then commands, "So tell me, Mister James Barnes, why you believe that a dead woman has made a request of you."

Bucky slumps back against the sofa and takes another sip of his tea, and then another when the words won't come. "I--"

"Don't worry, boy, I didn't say I don't believe you, just tell me why you believe it to be so."

She's so matter-of-fact about it, casually accepting his story, accepting _him,_ that the story just tumbles out, from the first time he saw the park to what had happened to him just days ago. She never interrupts, just refills his tea when his throat goes dry, and nudges the plate of cookies toward him.

He tugs his draft letter out of his pocket to show her when the words run out.

Her eyes are still warm, but she's assessing him, measuring her words against his tale as she says, "Your nana is not wrong about that place."

Bucky's eyes go wide. He'd always known his nana was special, even if no one else believed in her, not even his mother.

"Can you please explain what you mean and then maybe tell me why me?" he asks.

She tapped the paper on the coffee table drawing Bucky's eye. "You don't have time for all that," she says. "The land the park is built on is sacred to another tribe, but just like with most things, it was stolen from them. And a small park was put there, nothing but a carousel. Nothing terribly upsetting to the spirits. But as the park gained success, it grew and kept growing, encroaching on spaces it should not have with gluttony and disrespect." 

She cocks her head at him. "There's always a price to be paid, James Barnes," she states. "Are you willing to pay that price to find out what you seek?"

It's eerie the way her voice changes and her eyes go dark. It'd be unsettling, but Bucky grew up around his nana and never believed she had "episodes" or "fits", no matter what his dad called them. He nods. "Yes, ma'am. I made a promise and I intend to keep it."

"Very well, then," she says. "You've set yourself a difficult task."

"That's okay."

"Clint was passed around at his great grandfather's circus for a bit, but the Government came knocking and took him 'for his own good'," she says, disdain dripping from every syllable. "Last I heard, he ran away from the orphanage," she adds, voice going soft and sad. "We lost track of him after that."

With a melancholy sigh, she looks back up at Bucky. "I am sorry, James, but I don't know where he's got to. He was a smart boy, even if he had trouble in school, but he was a charmer with a heart of gold. There's just no telling."

"Thank you, ma'am," Bucky says. "You didn't have to share any of this with me. I appreciate it."

"I can see you're a good man," she says. "Hang onto that if you can."

~~*~~

Ella Cojocaru's words follow Bucky into the service, keeps him fighting against the worst impulses of everyone around him. They echo and rattle around his head when he wakes in a hospital in Seoul. They ground him when he stumbles to his nana's grave, only managing to stay upright by leaning on Steve. They push him to get better, to never give into the despair that wants to eat him alive. And they sit badly on his shoulders when he returns to Waterloo and finds that nothing has changed except him.

With his Mustang parked outside the cemetery gates, Steve waiting in its passenger seat, Bucky visits three graves that day. He misses his nana _so much._ He sets a bundle of wildflowers against her headstone, drags his fingers over the words there. Almost feels her touch, a kiss pressed to his forehead once again. Swallowing thickly he turns away.

He leaves tea roses on Ella Cojocaru's headstone, whispering his gratitude, then he lingers over Edith Barton's simple plaque which tells nothing of her life, just the dates she lived. He leaves her a small bundle of lilacs, hopes she would have liked the delicate purple flowers. Then he drops to his knees to apologize and ask for her forgiveness. Not only has he not saved her son, but now there's nothing left of him to even try to look.

Steve's at his side, pulling him up, and bundling him back to the car, driving them off before Bucky comes back to himself.

"I don't think it's a good idea for you to stay here, Buck," Steve says for probably the tenth time in as many days.

Bucky's flat out on the narrow bed in his cousin's guest room, staring sightless up at the ceiling, while Steve sits sketching near the windowsill.

"I promised," Bucky replies. Again.

"That was a long time ago."

"It doesn't matter. A promise is a promise."

"Buck," Steve says. He's standing over Bucky, hands on his hip and lips drawn into a frown. "You cannot hold yourself accountable for a promise to a _ghost._" 

Steve huffs out a frustrated breath and Bucky shakes his head, closes his eyes. He's still adjusting to a lot of things, no left arm, for one, and Steven Grant Rogers, all filled out. He's finally grown into that heart of his.

"Look," Steve says. "I have a job to get back to, but I promised your ma I wouldn't leave you alone--"

"I ain't alone, Stevie."

"Sofia has her own life. She doesn't have time to chase after you when you head out to that- that _place_ every night!"

"And I ain't talking about Sofia," Bucky replies, finally dragging himself to sit up and meet Steve's eyes.

He's standing there, arms crossed over his chest, worry creasing his brow while he tries to glare. "Who then?"

"Edith Barton."

"Buck."

"I know it sounds crazy, but I've seen her."

Steve shakes his head. "It doesn't just _sound_ crazy, Buck. It is!" He's starting to turn red from bottling up the words.

"My nana--"

"Filled your head full of ghost stories and tales from the 'old' country and none of it was ever true!"

"How do you explain my draft letter, huh?" And now Bucky's getting angry. He stands, points a finger at Steve. "That place is haunted and Imma gonna fix it!"

"You're gonna do it without me watching you destroy yourself because of it!"

He storms out of the room, slamming the door hard enough to shake the pictures on the wall. And soon enough, Bucky hears the Mustang roar to life, with Steve tearing off down the street.

Bucky sags onto the bed with a heavy sigh. It's probably for the best that Steve can't stay around. They'll end up coming to blows if they're together for much longer. And, yeah, that's all on Bucky, but he can't stop himself. Not now. Not when something tells him he's _close._

~~*~~

Close? Six months and still nothing, Bucky thinks. How's that for close?

Night after night, he still goes to the park, waits until well after midnight, until he starts shivering or runs out of cigarettes, whichever comes first, before he throws in the towel. And each night is the same story: nothing. Nothing happens, there's no visitations, no fog, no wraiths, no voices.

He spends his days visiting county courthouses, talking to people in an ever widening circle. When people begin to steer clear of him and Sofia starts speaking in careful condescending tones, he changes his story, tells them he's writing a book. And that brings people out of the woodwork, all of them willing to talk his ear off, but none of them telling him anything he wants to know.

Then he stumbles across an elderly school teacher who leads him to the orphanage that Clint had been sent to. With high hopes and the anticipation of finally finding who had adopted Clint -- because surely he'd been adopted? -- Bucky races to the address he's given only to find that the entire place is gone, burned to the ground almost eight years ago.

Bucky's twenty-eight when he drives through the broken down entrance for the final time. It's a new moon, so little to light his way, but he doesn't miss the new "No Trespassing" signs tacked up around the fence and blocking the main gate. He stands in front of his car, staring at the signs for a long time before shrugging and taking up his usual place.

His curiosity gets the better of him and he can't help but blurt out the question at the bar the next evening. "Hey, anyone know what's going on at Springlake?"

"What do you mean?" the bartender asks as he pulls another beer.

"There's all these 'no trespassing' signs all over the place," Bucky explains.

"Well, I guess the owners got tired of the kids going down there and vandalizing the place," he offers as explanation.

A construction worker down the bar shakes his head. "Nah, it's not that. My boss said it's being torn down. He got the contract."

"Tearing it down?" Bucky asks. "Why?"

The bartender looks at him like he's a bit touched in the head. "Why not? It's nothing but a danger and an eyesore." He grabs a couple of empty mugs off the bar and sets them in a dish bucket behind the bar. "I think it's way past time."

"I just," Bucky starts, shaking his head. "I mean, shouldn't they rehab it or something instead?" he asks, voice trailing off as he meets nothing but suspicion, especially the sandy-haired guy who'd just stepped up to the bar with two empties, silently asking for a refill.

He eyes Bucky and Bucky absolutely does not stare, though he does steal glances at one of the most attractive men he's ever seen. As broken as he is, it hadn't been hard to keep his _impulses_ under control. Hell, it's not like he felt much of anything, but he's definitely getting better because his libido sits up and takes notice.

"What's it to you, anyway?" the guy asks and Bucky startles, eyes darting up, meeting blue eyes that are narrowed a bit in distrust.

"Um, well, I'm writing a book," he explains, doesn't sound believable to his own ears.

"A book, huh?" The guys mouths, hums a bit, before he leans forward. "A book about Springlake? Who'd read a book about some old park in bumfuck Iowa?"

Bucky licks his lips and is pretty sure the guy is staring at his mouth. That could be good or it could mean he's about to get punched. "No, I mean, it's not just about there. It's," he hesitates, "it's about abandoned and neglected places. I got contracted by an artist." It's almost true. Steve had gotten enamored with charcoal and become consumed with sketching haunting images. He's making a name for himself, selling everything he creates.

The guy turns to look at Bucky, hip cocked against the bar and arms, with the most amazing biceps, crossed over his chest. He's shaking his head. "That sounds stupid," he says, then shouts toward the back of the bar. "Hey! Nat! Get over here! This guy says he's a writer, doin' a story on Springlake of all places!"

"I--" Bucky tries to get out, but then one of the most beautiful women he's ever seen starts stalking toward them and his brain shorts out. His libido is fully on line now. What inconvenient timing.

She holds out a hand, saying, "Natasha Romanoff," then says, "and this guy's trying to get your goat."

He shakes her hand, staring into the face of a woman that could end him. But at least it'd be death wrapped in a gorgeous package. Maybe she'd strangle him with her thighs.

"Tash!" the guy objects, but he's holding out his hand and Bucky has to accept the gesture or look like a bigger asshole than he already does. Or the creeper that his thoughts make him.

"Clint Barton," the guy -- _Clint_ \-- says and Bucky damned near chokes on his own tongue.

"Oh," Clint says, hand going to the back of his neck and he ducks his eyes. "Guess you've done some research, then?" he finishes, voice filled with shame.

"Um, yeah, uh," and Bucky's stumbling now, can't form a coherent sentence.

Natasha's eyes dart between them and she's shaking her head and rolling her eyes at them. "Well, c'mon, mysterious writer, how about you join us?"

She reaches for his right hand and starts to tug him forward, but he balks. He frees his hand and grabs his drink before nodding them forward. "Need my hand, if you don't mind," he says.

"Sorry," she apologizes and nods to Clint who's standing there looking like a deer caught in the headlights.

"Clint, bring the drinks and get a fresh beer for--" she pauses, waking Bucky up to the reality that he hadn't given them his name as they reach their table.

"Oh, shit!" he swears, then blushing, he stops. "Sorry." He sets his drink down and holds out his right hand. "My nana would kill me if she'd caught me behaving this way."

Natasha takes his hand again, hers is small, almost delicate, but there's strength there, too. And after the war, Bucky doesn't assume anything about anyone. "I'm James Barnes," he says, "Bucky to my friends," he adds.

She lets his hand go, but pats the back of it with her left. "It's good to meet you, Bucky."

Just then Clint comes up, large hands holding two beers and one martini. Surprisingly, he sets a beer in front of Natasha before holding out his hand. "Bucky, is it?"

Bucky takes his hand, wants to linger, but it's only then that he catches the wire going from Clint's shirt pocket to his ear. He must stare because Clint ducks his head before saying, "Yeah, I'm hard of hearing," he admits, but it's said so softly that Bucky can barely hear him.

"Oh! Sorry!" Bucky tries to explain. He lifts his left shoulder, noting the empty shirt sleeve pinned to _his_ pocket. "Not judging! I promise," he says, probably a bit too fast and definitely too loud. "Um, sorry, sorry, I just, well, I'm usually more observant than that."

Natasha laughs and it's a warm husky sound. "I think you two are well matched, clueless idiots," she says, but it's fond, at least directed toward Clint.

"Sit, Bucky," she orders after she's settled into the center of one side of the booth, leaving the other for the two men. "You, too, Clint."

Clint blushes, shoulders lifting to his ears, and Bucky might feel off kilter by the whole situation, but he really needs to talk to Clint so he slides into the booth, tries to scoot as far in as he can so that Clint won't be uncomfortable. But Natasha just smirks at him as she takes a sip of her beer.

"So tell us, _James_, what are you really writing about?"

The question's not the least bit friendly, her tone hard and tight. That coupled with the way she almost seems to be staring into his soul makes Bucky wonder what he's got himself into. And he's stuck, hemmed in, can't go anywhere.

"I don't know what you're implying, ma'am," he says, "but I told you. An artist back in Brooklyn wants copy and a story to go with drawings he's done, so I'm here to come up with interesting tales for his sketches and illustrations."

He takes a carefully measured drink, won't glance to the side or look away from the suspicion in Natasha's green eyes.

"You couldn't just make up a story?" she asks, posture still stiff.

"That's not what he wants," he fires back. Then he turns to look at Clint who he finds is sprawled casually back, left arm slung along the back of the booth while the right is holding the nearly empty martini glass up to his lips. "Why am I being interrogated?" Bucky demands.

Clint's eyes narrow just a bit, before he smirks. "That's not what this is," he says, grin splitting his face before he swallows the last bit of the martini. "This is Natasha bein' friendly."

"It don't feel friendly."

"That cause you got somethin' ta hide?" Clint asks.

"I ain't hiding nothing," Bucky argues. "But you ain't gonna believe what I have to say."

Natasha cocks her head, there's still suspicion in her eyes, but the hardness has eased slightly. When he looks at Clint, he's sucking an olive into his mouth, somehow making the movement look sexy. With his looks and that smile, Bucky bets he'd make anything look like sex on two legs.

"So what do you have to say?" Natasha prods, dragging Bucky's attention back to her.

"Um," he hesitates, then huffs out a breath. "I can't believe I'm telling this to two strangers."

Natasha places a cool palm on Bucky's forearm. "If it helps, think of us as friends."

"Hell, if it helps, think of us as family," Clint adds and he must be leaning over because his breath brushes against Bucky's cheek. "Whatever gets it done."

Bucky swallows, has to grip his beer tight not to lean into Clint.

"Sure," he says. "Um, I'm not crazy, okay?"

"You're procrastinating," Natasha points out.

"Yeah, well, you would too, if you were me."

"I highly doubt that," she says.

Clint adds, "Not Nat. She's good at words."

"So how long have you been together?" Bucky asks, and that is not what he'd planned to say.

"Nat is my sister from another mother," Clint answers. "I've known her for half my life." Bucky turns and Clint's looking at Natasha with a fond smile. "Hell, I've known her for all of my life that matters."

"But that isn't what you wanted to tell us, is it, Bucky?" Natasha prompts.

Bucky shakes his head and swallows the rest of his beer. "I swear on my nana's grave that what I'm about to say is the god's honest truth," he says.

Natasha's eyes widen and he feels Clint stiffen next to him.

"Here goes," Bucky mutters under his breath. "A ghost has been after me for a long time. It, um, _she_ made me promise to save," he hesitates, wishes his beer wasn't empty, before finishing, "well, she made me promise to save _you_." He turns to meet Clint's astonished eyes. "Been a few years and I haven't done much saving, but it's not for trying."

He takes a breath, finishes with, "You're a very hard man to find, Clint Barton."

"What the _hell?_" Clint hisses. "You think this is funny?" He stands, his hands balled into fists at his sides as he leans down to spit out, "What kind of asshole makes a joke like that?"

Bucky tenses, knows he's about to get punched, but instead of deflecting he lifts his chin.

Natasha's palm stops Clint's fist.

"What the hell, Nat?" Clint shouts and now everyone in the bar is looking at them, wondering what happened, and Bucky wants to shrink down in his seat and hide.

"We're not brawling tonight," Natasha says. "Go get the car. We'll be right out."

"We'll--" Clint deflates, but the glare he shoots Bucky before he storms out is venomous.

"Um, that could have gone better," Bucky says.

Natasha rounds on him, finger pointing at him. "Pay the check and then come with me. I don't know what you're playing at, but this is not funny." She leans in, voice dropping. "If you're playing a prank on Clint, I will gut you like a fish," she hisses, and somehow Bucky knows she means it.

He swallows and can only nod. She gets up and follows Clint out, while Bucky has to pay the bill with shaking hands.

~~*~~

Natasha turns the car away from town and Bucky knows her destination immediately. He groans and sinks deeper into the Chrysler's back seat.

It only takes twenty minutes to get there, but it's almost the longest of Bucky's life. The tension in the car is so thick you can cut it with a knife.

"Natasha," Clint swears when they turn into the park.

She parks the Chrysler in Bucky's usual spot and turns around to pin him with her glare. He feels rooted to the spot, like a bug on a mounting board. "So talk," she orders. "Tell us the truth this time."

"I am telling you the truth!" Bucky growls.

"Bullshit!"

"Well, I am!" he retorts, opening the door and storming out. He stops near the front gate, before turning. "Are you guys coming?"

Natasha is out of the car, storms up to Bucky and slaps him. "What in the hell is wrong with you? You acted like you knew what happened here!"

His eyes widen as he looks at Clint, who's sitting and just starting up at the bones of the roller coaster.

Bucky sags. "I'm sorry! I don't… I was gonna show… but," he trails off.

"Show what? How do you expect to show us a ghost?"

The contempt dripping off every syllable stings, but Bucky deserves it.

"I don't know! I don't know why me! I don't know anything except I made a promise before I shipped out and I need to keep that promise!" He's shouting by the end, only stops when Natasha tugs on his arm hard enough to over balance him.

"What?"

"Bucky," she says, eyes wide and voice shaky as she points behind him.

"Yes!" he shouts. And maybe he shouldn't be so gleeful about meeting a ghost.

"What?"

"This is it! I can show you! I can fix it!"

The fog's lapping at his knees and he feels the chill wrap around him like an old coat. 

Natasha's backing away, but Clint's coming forward, until they collide, Clint catching her. She turns, "Clint!"

"I don't know, Nat, but this ain't natural."

"I can see that!" she hisses. "We should go."

"Don't go!" Bucky says, tries to move toward them, but the fog is tight like manacles around his ankles. "Um, maybe come get me?" he squeaks.

Then the world goes white and Bucky has to fight to breathe as he's tugged backwards, moving faster than a speeding car. The manacled grip drops him. He lands on hard ground, still can't see his hand in front of his face, but he pushes himself upright. "Edith?" he calls out, voice tremulous. "Missus Barton?"

Icy cold pushes against the middle of his back, prodding him forward. So he goes, stumbling and shambling since he still can't make out anything. He hits his shin on something and swears. "C'mon, Missus Barton, I brought Clint. He's safe," he calls again. "I didn't do it, but he's safe."

The fog begins to dissipate and Bucky knows where he's going to be. He closes his eyes, squints tight to stave off the scene.

"Bucky?" Clint's voice is nearby and Bucky has to open his eyes then.

Clint's standing near the control panel, eyes wide and skin pale. He's white as a ghost and Bucky is suddenly terrified that he's seeing what Bucky himself has seen.

"Clint!" Bucky calls, trying to divert Clint's attention.

He wraps his arm around Clint and tries to drag him away, but Clint's unmoved. He's of a height with Bucky and doesn't look particularly large, but Bucky can't budge him.

"Clint!" Bucky calls again, pokes Clint in the ribs. "C'mon, you don't want to be here for this."

Clint notices Bucky then, turns his head to meet his eyes. Clint's are shiny with unshed tears. "Bucky?"

"Yeah, c'mon. This ain't what I promised your ma."

Clint links their fingers, but when they try to leave, the fog immediately thickens around them. "I guess it wants us to stay?" Bucky says, mimics confidence, as he tries to keep it together for Clint.

There's the muffled shouting, the thump, and Bucky stiffens. "Hey, Clint, close your eyes for me. Please?"

"Uh, yeah, sure," he replies.

Bucky hopes to hell he's really done it because there's immediately a blast of frigid air which blows away the fog.

He tries to shove Clint behind him, but can't. His legs are rooted to the spot.

"Clint, baby!"

It's Edith's voice and James turns to see only her standing in front of Clint, her hand held up to press against Clint's cheek. 

"Mom?" Clint's voice is barely audible and there's a hiccup before he finally gets the word out.

"Look at you!" Edith says, approving. "All grown up into a fine man."

"Mom?" Clint repeats, disbelieving even as he leans into her touch. "But how?"

It's then that she meets Bucky's eyes. "James Barnes promised and he keeps his promises."

"I didn't do anything," Bucky protests.

Edith smiles and she looks young and beautiful once again, like the photo in the paper. "You got him here, didn't you?"

"Well, i--"

"I couldn't have done that," she says. "And I thank you."

With that she turns back to Clint, eyes drinking in the sight of her son. "I love you, baby," she says.

"I still don't understand," Clint says, and he's lifted a shaking hand to his mom. She takes his hand, presses it against her cheek.

"I needed to see you again. I needed to know that you were well."

"I'm, I'm okay, I guess?"

"Good," she says. "I have to go now, just know that I love you and always will, baby."

"Don't go!" Clint cries out. "Mom, please?" It's anguished and makes Bucky's chest hurt.

"Take care of him, James."

"I will, ma'am." She drops a kiss on his forehead and then tugs Clint forward into her arms, holding tight as he shakes.

Then she's gone and Clint's staggering to hold empty air. He's flailing and crying out, and Bucky tugs him into a one-armed hug. "I'm sorry, man."

Clint sniffs, shakes his head, but leaves his face buried in Bucky's neck. "Don't be sorry. I saw my mom again," he says, then straightens and pierces Bucky with a confused stare. "Are you a witch or uh, warlock or something?"

"I don't think so?"

"You don't sound so convinced."

"Well, truth is I always thought my nana could see things the rest of us couldn't. Maybe I'm like her?"

"Oh," Clint's nodding, then his eyes widen. "We better go get Natasha! She's gonna kick my butt for scaring her like this!"

James speeds up. "Yeah", he says, almost breathless with everything that he'd just witnessed, or maybe it was Clint still holding his hand as they rush through the park; both clinging as if their lives depended on it.

By the time the hole in the fence is visible, they're practically running, but it's no longer from fear or a melancholy ache. James is grinning ear to ear for the first time he can remember since he shipped out. Reluctantly, he releases Clint's hand so that he can scramble through the fence, back toward Natasha, away from the past.

James turns, knows this is the last time he'll set foot in this place. An instinct or a voice brushing the back of his mind tells him it won't be the last time something like this happens to him. It's been awhile, but he finds he's looking forward now, not just back.

When he catches up to Clint, he sees Natasha hug him, then punch him in the arm and James can't help but grin. Their relationship looks a lot like his and Steve's, familiar, _family._

"I, um, I don't want to interrupt, but can I get a ride back?" James asks, voice a bit tentative. He doesn't know these two, no matter how much of Clint's formative years he'd learned. And now, standing here has him feeling more than a bit awkward. He's got a huge crush on Clint, can't help but stare at him, and he has to swallow when his eyes meet Natasha's. She's leaning against the Chrysler, eyes narrowed at him.

"I mean, if you don't mind?" he adds.

"We won't leave you stuck out here," Clint pipes up, head turning between the two of them.

"Thanks," James says, and he means it.

Clint glances at Natasha and she gives him a short nod. That must be a signal of some sort because the tension in Clint's spine eases just a bit even as he stands taller. He steps up to James and holds out his hand. "Um, thank you," he starts, voice a bit shy. "I can't begin to tell you what this meant to me."

James grips his palm, squeezes and then lets his hand linger. He's gonna follow Clint's lead on this.

Clint lowers his eyes and those lashes brush his cheeks. "So, this might be forward and I might be reading this all wrong, but," he pauses, licks his lips, "you wanna get a drink?"

Natasha huffs out a breath and shakes her head before walking around to the driver's side and getting in. "Men!" James hears her frustrated snort before the car starts.

When he turns back, Clint's moved close, so close James can feel the heat radiating off him. "That's meant to be a date, not just a friendly 'oh hey' drink, if you want it to be?"

James grins, takes that as permission to pat Clint's ass. "I want!" he says, then jumps when Natasha honks the horn.

Clint laughs and James joins in.

Clint whoops. "Wow, what a night!"

Bucky agrees. What a night indeed.

The End

**Author's Note:**

> Fill for my WinterHawk Bingo square: _Ghost AU._
> 
> Thanks to my betas: abigail89 and shehitslikehammers. And thanks to the BDBD for sprinting and all the cheerleading.
> 
> I wasn't supposed to be working on this, but the image kind of took over. No clue where the story came from, but I kind of like the idea that Bucky's Romani on his mother's side.
> 
> 1) I chose this name because I wanted someone who'd believe Bucky and someone who saw the world differently. [Ella Cara Deloria](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ella_Cara_Deloria) was the inspiration.
> 
> 2) [ Springlake](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Springlake_Amusement_Park) was a real place, so long gone I hardly remember it.


End file.
